Description:
In anything but his silver robes with their gold embroidered arcane runes, Dran Gildenshire's diminutive stature would leave people discounting his threat. Those who in the past who have crossed him know better. His eyes are a royal purple hue and his silver-gold hair seems as if spun from precious metals. No one is sure whether his raspy whisper is intentional or inflicted, but entire rooms tend to fall silent when he speaks. He has often been known to help the less fortunate, but in the end his agenda is his own.

He is rarely seen with any weapon, save a non-descript walking staff, but rumors say that his least flamboyant possession is much more than it seems.

Roleplay Sample:
Dran Gildenshire sat quietly in the tavern common room, as usual, at a table to himself. Few bothered him without reason. It suited him just as well. He was sipping gently from a tall necked glass - his first and likely last of the evening - when a commotion at the entrance took his attention. It was the mad mage Meerim who burst in from the street. This time, though, his rant seemed angered, rather than insane. Dran listened for a moment to him going on about thieves despoiling "Master Iyrim's" lair before he could take no more.

"Mad, mad Meerim," a hush took the room as Dran's scratchy whisper caught even the mad mage's attention. "Even you should know by now that Iyrim is long since dead. He'll be avanging no invaders this night."

Meerim's eyes took a cold but lucid cast as he approached the silver robed wizard. "Is that so, Gildenshire? Perhaps then, you would share their fate?" As he spoke the last, Meerim laid a hand on each of Dran's shoulders. The silver wizard's purple eyes took a dangerous cast as a few quick words were spoken on the spidery language of magic. A bolt of charged energy lashed into the open air before him as Meerim teleported away.

"Mad coward," Dran whispered to himself- though every ear in the room heard him-as he seated himself.